


Tastes

by aphleser



Category: Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Banter, F/M, multichap, quid pro quo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:10:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7831588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphleser/pseuds/aphleser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another round of Quid Pro Quo, Hannibal asks Clarice how her tastes run...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NGL, I'm no stranger to fanfiction, but this is my first Silence of the Lambs fic. Now, I have seen the film, and I've read the books, so I know a fair bit, but if anything is wrong, don't hesitate to let me know. Politely of course, we all know how important manners are. Onwards and upwards, enjoy, and review!

The tell-tale footfalls, echoing around the hollow corridor, alerted Lecter to Clarice's arrival. He closed his eyes and savoured the clean-cut sound.

"Good afternoon, Agent Starling." Came the dungeon tones from behind the reinforced glass. Clarice nodded tightly, "Afternoon, Doctor."

"What joys have you brought me today, my dear?" Dr. Lecter smiled with a predatory look, finally opening his dark eyes.

"A nice case file on Buffalo Bill, sir." Clarice smiled bravely back, wondering what was on the Doctor's admittedly brilliant mind. His smile gave nothing away, and his face was impassive.

"How quaint." Was all the Doctor said, and handled the papers delicately once Clarice had sent them through. Flipping through the pages, the pair stayed silent.  
Clarice marvelled at the fact that the other prisoners seemed to be perpetually quiet when they had their meetings. She wondered if they were always this calm.

"Agent Starling, if I may have your attention...?" Lecter asked courteously.

"Yes, Doctor?" Clarice pulled herself out of her musings, "What is it?"

"Our Billy likes his girls larger, doesn't he? Why do you think he prefers them big, Agent Starling?"

"I can't be sure, Doctor. There is often a sexual element to these types of cases, and-" Clarice paused, a touch uncomfortable. Dr. Lecter noticed immediately.

"And what, Clarice? Do tell, don't keep me waiting." Something about the command was all the more chilling in that metallic voice of his.

"A-and, to my knowledge, men seem to prefer, uh, larger women." Clarice struggled, tripping over words. Lecter grinned, showing off cat's teeth. He allowed himself to look at her,  _really_  look at her, take in all that she was physically.

"Not all, my dear, I assure you." The barest hint of red bloomed in Clarice's cheeks, and she took a deep, cleansing breath.

"No, I'm sure you're right." Clarice said quietly, shifting in her fold-out chair, hearing the awkward squeaks of the cheap plastic and metal.

"I had a patient, for example," the Doctor continued, watching Clarice like a hawk, "who couldn't stand fat on a sexual partner's body. It was an anathema to him, to the point of revulsion. I admit my personal tastes run close to his, but I am far more gracious than he when it comes to, how shall I say,  _curves_." Lecter let the last word rasp, almost if he was grating it in his throat. He spoke slowly, enjoying the words, and the effect they seemed to be having on his little Starling.

Clarice shifted again. The Doctor watched her shapely legs move under her modest skirt, and remembered the errant psychological fact: when a woman is aroused, she may cross and uncross her legs, as a way of presenting good leg muscles. He grinned triumphantly.

"How do your tastes run, Agent Starling?" Blushing redder now, Clarice gaped.

"Dr. Lecter, I hardly think it is appropriate-"

"Quid pro quo, Clarice," he reminded her, "You tell me things, I tell you things, everyone's happy." He turned on his bed to face her fully, almost as if the glass seperating them had evaporated, and it was only them in the dank corridor. His fingertips came together and his head inclined, awaiting her reply.

"I'm not particularly fussy, Doctor, I don't really have what you would call tastes. So, why does he prefer larger girl-"

"Tut-tut-tut, Clarice. That's not nearly enough for another question. Surely you have in mind the so-called ' _perfect man_ '?" Clarice opened her mouth, and shut it again. She was at loss for how to appease him enough for another question. She screwed up her courage.

"Someone who can understand my job; its demands and its importance to me, someone who is kind, smart, caring, courteous, brave, respects me and my mind. Someone who knows me, inside and out, and knows how to make me smile after a bad day." Clarice let out a breath.

"It seems to me, Clarice, what you want is a father," a pause, "someone who is 'brave' like your dead father, who is 'caring' and who 'knows you'?"

There was a silence, as Clarice reflected on this. Doctor Lecter rarely said anything without meaning, and as hurtful as some of his statement were, they did have grains of truth in them.

"Maybe, sir." Clarice said quietly. She knew that she yearned for her father, but it hadn't really crossed her mind to look at her romantic partners, not that there were many. She had had a crush on her Criminal Sciences professor at university, a kind, considerate,  _middle-aged_  man. He had listened to her and shown her kindness, and although nothing ever came of it, a crush had bloomed rather quickly.

Ardelia couldn't understand why boys their own age, at the academy didn't interest her. Suddenly, it hit her like a lightning bolt; Clarice didn't want boys, she wanted  _men,_ with maturity and experience.

And now her fascination with Doctor Hannibal Lecter was threatening to become as such, and he fitted into the profile. Who knew a law enforcer's job better than a criminal? Who had talked Miggs into suicide after he disrespected her, listened attentively to her as she talked, and who respected her mind and encouraged it, giving her clues rather than answers, confident in her intellectual capability?

Oh, dear Lord, thought Clarice.

"Doctor Lecter, I must go, I'll see you, uh, soon." Hurriedly collecting her things, Clarice walked fast towards the sliding gates, leaving Hannibal smirking slightly.


	2. Chapter 2

Clarice debated back and forth with herself about returning to the asylum. If she did go, Doctor Lecter might force her into further divulgence of her private life, which was not a nice prospect, and if she didn't, Buffalo Bill would surely claim a new victim, which was far, far worse. And Clarice couldn't let that happen.

So she told herself as her heart leapt up into her throat, watching the redbrick building loom before her as she parked her small car. Taking in lungfuls of air, Trainee Agent Clarice M. Starling told herself that she was as strong as any man, and just as clever, and she could get through one measly little visit with a renowned cannibal.

Going through the usual tests and rules was nothing at this point, all of her attention was focused on how she would behave with Doctor Lecter. How she would sit, how she would speak...

Soon enough, the teeth-like gates slid and slammed open, leaving the corridor looking like an open jaw. Clarice swallowed, and stepped into the Lion's maw.

"My, oh my, Agent Starling. What a pleasant surprise." Doctor Lecter smiled darkly at his brave little Starling, hopping closer to his outstretched hands.

"Good morning, Doctor." Clarice said tightly.

"It's been some time, my dear. Have you been busy, down at the FBI?" Lecter drawled the acronym, almost whispering it, "Or were you scared to return?" Clarice's mouth tightened, lines appearing into the pallor of her skin.

"I wouldn't be sane if I weren't scared of you, Doctor Lecter." she said, meeting his roiling red eyes. Lecter smiled, amused. She was incredibly frank, it made for a pleasing change in conversation. He usually revelled in hidden meanings and innuendo, but her openess was disarming and, dare he say it, charming.

"Indeed, it's rather wise of you to think so." Clarice nodded stiffly, before sitting down in the cheap, plastic chair.

"May I ask what kept you, Agent Starling?"

"I would rather we discussed Buffalo Bill, Doctor." Ah, Clarice, so blunt...

"Don't you remember our agreement, my dear. Quid pro quo..." Clarice resisted the urge to sigh in frustration.

"Fine." Now now Clarice, thought Hannibal, manners don't cost a penny, "I was busy, I am still a student, and I have plenty of other work projects."

"I see. Bogged under, was it? I'm sure they work you hard, Agent Starling."

"They do, sir." Relieved that the conversation topic was at least more comfortable than her reluctance to return to the asylum, Clarice relaxed a slight degree.

"But you're a hard worker, aren't you Clarice? You'll never do anything  _special_  for a better grade, would you?" So much for her comfort, "Never wink at the professor, smile sweetly at old Jackie boy for that advancement, never adjust your clothing in front of the men that control your future?" Lecter began to lean in, greatly enjoying the effect he was having on Clarice.

"Doctor Lecter, I'm sure I don't know what you're insinuating, but-"

"You know excatly what I'm insinuating, Clarice. Surely you recognise your power? You could have the men in your life eating out of the palm of your hand." Clarice's breath almost stopped, she was so tense. Lecter watched her raptuously, enjoying her little nervous display.

 _Did_  she know her power? Did she realise that she could have him, if she so wanted? She was so very enchanting, the way her cheeks blushed, the way her eyes shone and slanted slightly. Everything about Clarice was dangerously, inebriatingly magnified; her body under her almost austere clothing, her legs moving under her skirt...

Hannibal wondered what she'd look like in revealing black silk.

"Quid pro quo, Doctor." The spell was broken.

"If you insist, Agent Starling." Lecter leaned back, and Clarice blinked a few times to clear her thoughts.

"So, Doctor Lector," Clarice began, pulling her heavy coat off, and exposing her throat and wrists, "What do you know-"

She was cut off by Lecter closing his eyes. To her abject horror, he lifted his chin and sniffed delicately at the circled holes in the thick glass. She was still holding her coat, but couldn't relax her fingers to let it go.

"I can smell your perfume, my dear, but it is not l'Air du Temps. It is, however, bewitching. I strongly suggest you do not wear it around other men, they may get the wrong idea."

"I'm not wearing any perfume, Doctor-" she began in confusion, before cutting herself off abruptly in terrible realisation.

"Ah," Lecter said softly, "I see." His nostrils flared slightly as he sniffed again, "My statement still stands, Clarice. You do smell intoxicating, it makes me wonder about how you  _taste_." He smiled knowingly, and released a minute chuckle of mirth.

Clarice stood up quickly and collected her coat to her chest protectively, greatly uncomfortable. She turned to leave.

"Agent Starling, I do hope I have not offended you. That was never my intention." Clarice turned back, astounded.

"Then what was that spiel about me being a 'rube' about, Doctor?" Clarice's anger bubbled over the brim, and she almost spat the question at Lecter. Her muscles tensed, and Lecter admired the tendons and sinews in her elegant neck.

"I wanted to see what you're made of, Agent Starling." Still indignant, Clarice frowned, her smooth brow barely even folding.

"A little test, was it? To see if I was worthy of your time?" My my, Clarice, thought Hannibal, what sour grapes are these?

"If you want to put it that way, then yes." Lecter didn't even blink in his calmness, while he watched Clarice fume. With great effort, she placed the lid slowly on her anger and sat down again, determined to see some results.

"Quid pro quo, Doctor." she said through gritted teeth.

Hannibal Lecter smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the continuation, my friends!


	3. Chapter 3

"Clarice, girl, we're gonna be late!" Ardelia's voice called from the hall, the open door offering a peek into the girls' shared dormitory. Skin creams and term papers alike were scattered across the tabletops and coverlets, and knitted blankets courtesy of Mapp's grandmother lay across the two beds.

"Coming, Dee!" Clarice answered, voice raised just enough to be audible to her friend, but not loud enough to disturb others. She knew how annoying loud people could be when attempting to study. She lifted the perfume bottle to the base of her throat, before catching sight of the label. L'air du Temps. The perfume Dr Lecter had said was 'bewitching'. Did he find her bewitching, she wondered. Before the thought could develop any further, Starling pushed it deep down, smothering it before it could even begin to breathe.

Quickly, she sprayed a small amount across her collarbones and at her wrists, rubbing them together. The scent lifted the warm air, permeating the room. The lightness of the perfume comforted her, it was like summer barbeques in the backyard at home, her Daddy on the porch, cooking up some burgers.

Shaking her head, Clarice placed the bottle back on her dresser, and grabbed her jacket. She was going out tonight with Ardelia to enjoy herself, to have one night of relief after so much stress. Neither her father nor Dr Lecter would ruin her night for her.

* * *

Dr Lecter receeded into his memory palace, enjoying the memory of music. Lying on his back, he summoned Dante's La Vita Nuova set to haunting and romantic music, the stunning piece in perfect pitch in his mind. Eyes closed, his fingers traced the notes in the air, flicking his six-fingered hand in perfect time to the music in his mind.

Unbidden, an image of Clarice Starling, in green silk, sat beside him as they both enjoyed Beatrice's solo came to the front of his mind, startling him enough to open his eyes. Irked, Lecter shut his eyes forcefully and attempted to push it away, file it somewhere else so he could enjoy his private performance. Still the image persisted, details being filled in like a lovesick teenager's wet dreams.

He watched as Clarice's eyes shone, and the silk of her gown gleamed in the candlelight. He saw his own suit darken to pitch-black, felt the tie around his neck. Suddenly, Clarice looked at him as the crescendo soared onstage, and the way she looked at him... it took his breath away.

It was a look of love and admiration, of understanding and support. And he felt his own mouth smile back at her, and lean towards her ear. His breath disturbed the errant hairs of her sophisticated chignon as he whispered:

"Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?" Clarice's mouth quirked, not quite a smile, more a smirk. She turned her head the smallest degree, so that his mouth barely brushed her cheek.

"Yes, Hannibal," she answered coyly (when had he granted her permission to call him by his first name?), "very much so." Lecter caught her scent, her essence and heat leaking into the air around them.

"I'm glad," he felt himself smile back, "Beatrice reminds me of you." Clarice turned to him, eyebrows raised, surprised but flattered. Without a word, her slim hand moved across the armrest, and she curled her manicured fingers around his hand. He looked down at their joined hands, and noticed a silver band glittering on her ring finger.

Bursting from the dream, Lecter felt his heart beating slightly above his signature 85 beats per minute, and quickly regained control. It was nothing, simply a little childish daydream.

Finally his heart began to beat a little slower, as he composed himself. Carefully, he thought of the dream again, and began to analyse its rather troubling content.

So he was free, at the Opera, enjoying one of his favourite pieces of music, with a beautiful woman. An unattainable woman, in fact. Not to even mention that he had placed her in the role of wife in his little daydream. What exactly did this say of his feelings towards Agent Starling? Was he that enamoured of her, to cast her as his partner?

Did he have a  _crush_  on her?

What a laughable thought. He was a grown man, old enough to be Agent Starling's father, really. But Clarice did seem to prefer older men, didn't she? Chasing after her dead father, he presumed. He did not have  _crushes_ , nor did he let them dominate his memory palace. It was his inner sanctum, for escaping the mundanity of maximum-security captivity.

He would not allow Clarice Starling to worm her way into his mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Dr Hannibal Lecter was concerned, greatly concerned. He had not felt such... stirrings since his youth. The dream of Clarice - the fantasy - had awoken said stirrings with some alarming force. He was quite sure he had never felt like this before, and this was disconcerting in itself. He was not a man who  _pined_. He was a man who  _wanted_. He was a man who  _got_  and  _possessed_.

Little Agent Starling, so young, so brave... so utterly delectable. What a mind, what depth and reality there was to this woman! He was sure that she was unrivaled, unparalleled, when it came to others.

But she was also completely unattainable. As was he to her, if she should return his stirrings. Did he want her because he could not have her? Was he really so typical, so predictable?

Did he want her because she was there, available? Was he latching onto anything new and young, a brief respite, a breath of fresh air in his cold, dank dungeon? Was she  _bait_? Was she  _torture_?

Lecter was certain that Clarice would despise being used as anything, even if it won her Jackie-boy's approval. Advancement was bittersweet if it came on the heels of utilisation, especially for such a hard-working young woman, such as she was.

Dr Lecter resolved to find out more.

* * *

Trainee Agent Starling and Dr Hannibal Lecter MD's next scheduled meeting was late at night. Winter was blackening the sky at four p.m and snatching daylight from the outstretched hands of humanity. Tree branches were thick against dark blue horizons, and winds bit at exposed cheeks and fingers.

Of course, Dr Lecter had no idea of the darkness outside. Only that it was late in the day. And Clarice had clearly just come from the hot showers, flushed cheeks and throat, damp hair, and moisture at the creases of her elbows. Lecter did not mind at all, if it meant that she shucked her overcoat immediately, exposing her heated pulse to the cold air.

Leaking warmth and perfume into the air, Clarice had no idea of her appeal. She was still fussing with her coat, settling it perfectly on the back of the chair. She did not notice Lecter close his eyes briefly, and inhale indulgently. Music sang in his mind, a rising crescendo of sensation. It was like a starved man being given the finest cuisine known to humankind.

Dr Lecter had survived on memories, before Clarice. But now, faced with a new offering, old, repetitive memories paled next to her sensational magnificence. He found that there was no solace in his memory palace any longer, only in her presence.

Agent Starling sat down, and looked up. By now, Lecter had composed himself, and schooled his features into polite interest.

"To what do I owe the delight, Agent Starling?"

"I'm afraid Buffalo Bill has taken another girl, Dr Lecter." Clarice looked pained. Lecter enjoyed her wording; 'girl', not 'victim'. They were more than that to Clarice.

"Whom has he snatched?"

"Catherine Martin, Senator Ruth Martin's only daughter."

"And you have ruled out political agendas, I'm sure?" Clarice looked a touch surprised.

"No, we haven't, why?"

"Ah, Clarice, Clarice, look to his previous victims. Where any of those poor girls politically connected?"

"No, but we cannot rule out-"

"I'm afraid we can, Agent Starling. Something tells me our Billy doesn't care for their families, only their waistlines." Clarice's mouth bent, her revulsion clear. Lecter savoured the emotion, loving its tang on his tongue.

"Alright, I understand. Now, if you please-"

"Ah, ah, ah. Remember our deal, little Starling. Quid pro quo." Clarice's eyes half-closed, before flitting open again, and inhaling through her nose. Her frustration was as delicious as her disgust, sweeter, perhaps.

"Fine. Go, Doctor."

"Why do you think you were chosen for this... honour, Clarice?" Dr Lecter leaned forward a fraction of an inch. He wanted to watch her. Her emotions were so varied, so obvious on her face and in her body. It was addictive,  _she_  was addictive.

"I hope Mr Crawford found me suitable for the job." Lecter tipped his head to the right, like an animal listening. He didn't doubt that. Clarice's abilities were many.

"I think - if you'll permit me - Jackie-boy likes you. Do you notice him watching you, Clarice, out of the corner of your eye? Do you think he wants you, sexually? True, he is much older, but do you think he imagines scenarioes, exchanges, fucking you?" He let the expletive hiss out, softer than silk. Her reactions were not as obvious as he expected. She looked up into the corner, almost rolling her eyes, which he would have found impertinent had he not found it quite so endearing.

"That doesn't interest me, Doctor." Her mouth quirked upwards in one corner. Lecter's eyebrows rose delicately in surprise.

"Does it not? It interests me greatly."

"Why?" Ah, curious Clarice...

"I would lay the blame at the door of boredom, Agent Starling, but I do like to wonder..." He let himself trail off, hoping she'd take the bait.

"Wonder what, Doctor?"  _Perfect_. He let their shared silence elongate, stretch between them, before answering.

"Do you think Jackie-boy likes to dangle you in front of me like the tasty morsel you are, and let me wonder and think on how  _good_  you would taste?" Lecter could smell her now, all woman and darkness and curiousity and wanting. His heart soared. He watched her shift in her seat with some satisfaction.

"I don't know Doctor. What do you think?" Her challenge was sweeter than honey.

"What do I think?" he repeated softly, eyes fixed on hers, "How slippery of you, Agnet Starling. I rather imagined you'd play along."

"I'm no plaything, Doctor." said Clarice, with veiled rage colouring her tone. Dr Lecter was in ecstasy.

"Oh no, my dear, no, no, no. I would never begin to presume such an aspersion." Dr Lecter waited until Clarice's muscles relaxed slightly before continuing.

"Besides, I see you more as a play _mate_ , my dear."


	5. Chapter 5

"Dr Lecter, I don't think you calling me a 'playmate' is entirely appropriate-"

"Agent Starling, you are currently conversing pleasantly-" at her look, he edited, "at least to some degree, with a known serial killer and cannibal. Nothing about this situation is 'entirely appropriate', my dear." Clarice half-smiled at his wit. So sue her, he was charming. Didn't mean she forgot what he had done.

"Point taken, Dr Lecter." Lecter smiled, showing neat white teeth. He had lifted the heaviness of the conversational topic, but was about to let it fall once more. Let us see how young Clarice handles it.

"May I press upon you for an answer, Agent Starling?" Starling took in a breath. Lecter steepled his fingers against his mouth in anticipation.

"In answer, I do wonder sometimes if I wasn't just a pretty, young woman, to turn you on and tease you into cooperation." Dr Lecter frowned. Those were not her words, he could tell. They sounded far too masculine...

"My dear, I promise you that you are far more than that." Clarice blushed, pink filling her cheeks.

"Thank you, Doctor." she said quietly.

"You're most welcome, Clarice. May I ask from whom you borrowed those words?"

"Chilton was very vocal when I first visited." Just as he thought. Of course Freddie would throw such a backhanded compliment with the same finesse as one would throw a hand-grenade.

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you that he isn't worth listening to, my dear." Clarice half-smiled again, and she looked away, before looking back at Dr Lecter. From this angle, he could see how the gaps in her eyelashes shadowed the blue of her eyes, and created an entirely pleasing contrast in cool colour.

Clarice wasn't fully sure if he was being genuine, or manipulating her. As perceptive to untruths as he was, she had a few senses that told her when a person was lying.

She wasn't sure what to make of what her senses where telling her about Dr Lecter.

* * *

Once Clarice had left, Lecter reclined. Well, he leant back, prison furniture wasn't exactly conducive to relaxation.

Brave Clarice, singular, wonderful, special Clarice Starling. She was a cheap birthstone bought at a market stall; poor origins with enormous potential. It displeased him how she was treated around those who should nurture and respect her. After all, she had the courage to visit him. None of her superiours ever paid him such a courtesy.

Not that he'd want them when he could have her. Have her... Freudian slip, it seems, Lecter thought. He most certaintly did not 'have' Clarice. Clarice was not a woman to be 'had'.

His stirrings for her had blown into fully-fledged emotions. No point denying it to himself any longer, he would not treat himself as a fool, as confusing as that may seem. Indeed, Hannibal Lecter knew that he was very much involved in Clarice. He wanted her to succeed, he wanted her to thrive. She was more than just cheap entertainment, she was desired company.

Admitting this to himself was less troubling than he had orignially envisaged. He was not repulsed by the thought, in fact he welcomed it.

For the first time, Lecter allowed himself to set free the part of his palace labelled 'Clarice'. Details filled in, colour was added, she became alive, blinking and breathing, in his mind.

During the night, Hannibal let his imagination run free, dressing her in silks and satins, placing her in various environments, discussing literatire, art, music, theatre with her. Only for now, he promised himself. For now, he would dream of Clarice. At least until her next visit.


	6. Chapter 6

Clarice was concerned about her behaviour regarding Dr Lecter. He was forward, flirty, he played with her, and she didn't stop any of it. She didn't tell him no, or ask him politely to refrain from referring to her as 'Clarice' in his metal-rasp voice, drawing out the sibilance like a snake's tongue. In his mouth, her name was a prayer, a hymn, an aria, a  _canzone_.

Oh, God, listen to yourself. You're obsessed, girl, Clarice chastised herself. He's the most unreachable man in the whole world and you decide you want this... flirtation to continue?

Maybe I am doomed, thought Clarice dismally. However, she could not supress a note of glee from blossoming in her chest. The knot of feelings tightened almost pleasurably, like being hungry. But Clarice knew she hungered for more than just food.

* * *

Dr Lecter wondered about Clarice often.

How could he not? He had limited reading materials, day-to-day life crept on in a petty and monotonous pace. Full-body cavity check, cell maintenance, each time strapped to that infernal trolley contraption. And that God-forsaken mask. What a way to project his public image.

Careful, Hannibal, he warned himself, you're becoming vain in your solitude.

But back to Clarice, a far more pleasurable thought, and one that could keep him occupied for hours. Once he had exhausted his sexual questions (What does she wear to bed? Would she scream during orgasm? How does she taste, and would she accomodate him if he so desired?) far more mundane (by comparison) took their place; how does she like her tea? Is she the kind to wear nail polish? What is her favourite comfort-food?

She made his heart flutter, if he were so inclined to describe his feelings for her in the manner of a fifteen-year-old girl.

What a mind, what a beauty. He could, and did, spend hours locked in his mind palace, embellishing details and elements of her for his own pleasure and enjoyment. In his head they debated Shakespeare's intent in describing Caliban of The Tempest like a native at the subject of colonists, they discussed the effect of William Blake's 'The Tyger' on the history and subsequent development of poetry. Occasionally they spoke of Dante, and his deep, unconditional love toward his Beatrice.

Sometimes he dressed her. He tried green silk, and found it very agreeable. He held up black satin, and marvelled at the contrast. Soft pink was most becoming, and blue accentuated her bright eyes. Once, just once, he pictured lingerie, all lace and trim, but found himself reacting a little too obviously to be subtle, and put an end to that particular train of thought.

Dr Lecter delighted in his crush, to some extent. His infatuation gave him a distraction from snide remarks, and endless dull and dark corridors, supervised showers and terrible, terrible food.

Chilton had become increasingly vocal, in regards to Clarice, which irked Hannibal no end. Clarice was no object, nor was she simply just 'a girl'. She was a woman, a fighter, a warrior, the righteous, the fair, the brave, the individual. To hear her be reduced to a means to an end (his end, if you wanted to be pedantic) was infuriating and belittling.

She was Clarice, clarity with a West Virginia accent, and woman with a hint of gunpowder.


	7. Chapter 7

Clarice's next visit was scheduled for the second of December, as frost blanketed her windscreen and stuck her wipers to the glass. A few choice words, some yanking and tugging, and they were free, leaving her cheeks flushed charmingly, and clean sweat beading at her upper lip.

Descending the now-familiar steps, Clarice took a moment to let her breathing settle. She was panting as if she had run a marathon, and her heartbeat hammered in her throat, the pulse intense at the meeting of her neck and shoulders, just above her collarbone.

Calm once again, Clarice stepped into the lion's maw with next to no fear, having become used to the staring. No one dared make comment on her since the incident with Miggs, and Clarice felt a perverse smugness, that Hannib-  _Dr Lecter_  had done that for her.

"He did it to amuse himself." Crawford reminded her in her head, lest she get any ideas. Of course, he did it for kicks, just like how he murders and cannibalises people who are rude, or do not play adequately in a symphony orchestra. But she held herself a little taller nonetheless.

* * *

Her smell reached Dr Lecter before she did. Her warmth, intriguing and eager, like clean sweat and hard work, with the unmistakable musk of woman was so poignant a scent Hannibal found himself breathing it in, holding it in his lungs to let the arome permeate his tongue and palatte. You're too far gone, old man, he told himself, and for a woman half your age.

"Good evening, Dr Lecter," said Clarice cordially, as she settled herself in the plastic seat. She was wearing a skirt today, Hannibal noted. And her perfume had been recently sprayed, lingering in the air around her. She warmed the air next to his cell, so much that he could almost feel that phantom heat on his face. Or was he blushing?

"Hello, Agent Starling. How are you, my dear?" He answered just as pleasantly, letting his eyes meet hers. Bluer than veins in the wrist, than the coldest frost.

"I'm just fine, Doctor, thank you," she drawled, her mouth turning up just a little. He answered with a smirk.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, Clarice?"

"I came to determine your relation to Buffalo Bill. You said he was a patient of yours?"

"No, he was the lover of a patient of mine. Benjamin Raspail, I believe you've met?" He teased, watching her inhale a little sharply, and colour bloom up her neck to her cheeks. Clearly she was remembering the exhiliration of finding Raspail's head, and it was heady to witness.

"Yes," she said as blankly as possible, "Benjamin Raspail. And what did he tell you of Bill?" She took a pen from a hidden pocket in her blazer, and twisted her fingers around it until the cap popped off.

"Ah, let me think, Clarice. While I remember, how about another round of quid pro quo?" Clarice's pulse spiked again, he was being very provocative today. First Raspail, now this.

"Go, Doctor." Dr Lecter smiled at her go-to phrase.

"Very well. May I ask if you have a suitor?" There went her pulse again.

"No, I haven't the time, really." Clarice deliberately kept her tone flippant.

"Not even Jack Crawford?"

"Especially not Mr Crawford. Even if it were allowed, I see him as a father figure." Lecter's heart jumped subtly. So he wouldn't have to compete with Jackie-boy for Clarice's affections. Goody-goody. But what of her classmates?

"Not any of your peers?"

"I don't accept dates from my peers, it makes it harder to ascend the ladder later on." Clarice found herself being rather candid with the Doctor. Where had this sharing instinct come from?

"That is wise, my dear. But surely you desire companionship, familiarity, the comfort a partner can bring?"

"There'll be time for that later, I'm sure." Clarice said flatly, wishing she could go back to her inquiry.

"If only you didn't have to sacrifice anything to be taken seriously as a woman in a man's world." Dr Lecter pressed. He wanted her indignant at the hand the universe had dealt her, he wanted her ready to battle any limp boy that tried to cross her. She had the skills the FBI needed, the mind of a profiler, the instincts of a hunter, the empathy and care needed to address the many problems the Bureau dealt with.

He could see her future, and it was blindingly bright.

"If only." Clarice echoed, wistfullness in her voice. Her heart ached for her fair shot, her chance at recognition and promotion and advancement.

Dr Lecter eyed her soft face with sympathy. She deserved better, as an Agent, as a woman, and as a human being.

Clarice didn't remember seeing such a soft look on Dr Lecter's face. Usually he was impassive and blank, the only discernable emotion smugness in a sly smirk. His eyes were warmer, more bloodstone than maroon.

He felt for her, she could tell. It was a new feeling, that someone cared enough to let that emotion colour their features. It was also a dangerous feeling, and that it was related to a serial killer and cannibal made her stomach lurch. Oh, God, oh God, oh God, oh no...

"Clarice? Are you quite alright?" Lecter asked, eyebrows furrowed.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine." Clarice brushed it off, tucked her hair behind her ear. She shifted the notepad to rest on the tops of her thighs, took a breath.

"So what did Raspail know about Buffalo Bill?"


	8. Chapter 8

Clarice was clever, no doubt about it. The woman was an FBI agent-in-training for Heaven's sakes, they didn't take idiots. She had graduated from UVA with Honors, and was sharp enough to match wits with him, something rare - not to send himself flowers - but very welcome.

But she still forgot that the case file had a paperclip in it.

Patiently, he had worked through every eventuality and possibility, planning his escape meticulously. He deliberately did not think of Clarice for weeks, afraid that he would become rash where she was concerned, and let emotion taint his cold logic. Hannibal knew this facility inside and out, and knew his own plan as well as he knew the creases and dents in his own hands.

The time had come for him to fly to his little Starling.

* * *

It was a howling night, Clarice reflected, watching the branches black against the navy-blue of the sky. Twigs were scratching at windows and walls, as if asking, or rather demanding, to be let in. She shuddered and tugged the worn blanket tighter around herself. Ardelia was staying with her boyfriend, a cute, sweet but a little dull guy who was utterly entranced by her. It was kind of endearing, Clarice admitted, if a little puppy-ish.

Thoughts of Dr Lecter had not bothered her for quite some time now, only as intrusive passing notions. Whenever she passed a copy of Dante's  _Inferno_  in the library, whenever she saw a waiter pouring expensive wine for a couple through the fogged window of a fancy restaurant. At the thought of herself and Dr Lecter as a couple, Clarice blushed, slightly irritated that her mind had inevitably fallen into that rabbit hole. But her heart quickened nonetheless.

Determinedly, Clarice shook her head, imagining her thoughts falling out of her ears and slithering away into the gutters under their building.

It was too Gothic a night not to enjoy the comforting warmth of the room, alone, and watch the wild night howl outside.

* * *

What a night for it.

Darker than evil and black as pitch. Beware the fearsome killer, the dreaded cannibal, the sadistic Doctor, Hannibal Lecter.

Chuckling a little to himself, Hannibal shook his head. He always did have a flair for the dramatic, but he enjoyed himself nonetheless. He wondered if Clarice would tolerate such behaviour, and smiled a little when he realised that she had continued to visit him and pay him courtesy even after his dramatic and ruthless character assassination. She was more than strong enough to handle him, he was sure.

With that thought fortifying him, Hannibal stepped calmly over the mangled hand of Doctor Frederick Chilton, let himself out, and shut the door quietly and politely behind him.

* * *

 _I'm too old for it, but I'd love some hot chocolate_ , thought Clarice, wryly tugging the blanket around her like a cape. Like those superheroes in the comics her Daddy brought home for her from the drugstore. Super strength, morals made of steel, goodness incarnate, that was what Clarice was raised on, the same way other kids were raised on good food and manners. She had those things too, but they paled in comparison with those dog-eared and yellowed pages of fights and righteousness, good triumphing over evil, and justice.

Making her way to the little kitchen at the end of the hall, the ends of the patchwork blanket dragging over the cheap carpet, Clarice hummed tunelessly, knowing she had the floor essentially to herself. It was a relief sometimes, solitude.

She pushed into the kitchen and quickly located the mugs and hot chocolate powder, knowing exactly how to turn the cheap dust into heaven. As she prepared her drink, a shadow flickered across the linoleum floor, dissapearing into the lines between each panel.

Clarice didn't notice. She was too busy singing quietly and mixing the milk, sugar and powder into a paste while the kettle whistled in harmony with her. The spoon clinked against the china of the Wonder Woman mug, sounding much louder in the tranquility.

Another shadow danced across the floor, this time right behind Clarice's sock-clad feet. It almost touched her, but moved swiftly away, afraid of being caught.

As she poured the hot water over the paste, Clarice began to sing a little louder, enjoying the fact that she could. The wonderful-smelling steam curled over the cup, and Clarice mixed her drink, adding a little extre milk to cool it. Leisurely, she began to clean up her path, wiping downt the worksurface.

Grabbing the handle of the mug, Clarice left the little kitchen, as the shadow dissapeared under her bedroom door. She shut the door behind her with a click.

* * *

Setting the still-steaming mug on the bedside table, Clarice grabbed a well-worn copy of William Blake's Complete Works, and settled down on her bed, feeling warm and safe.

Her hand reached for the mug, and she brought it to her lips in anticipation.

"Be careful, Clarice. It's still hot."

With a terrified scream, Clarice dropped the full mug of hot chocolate on the floor, narrowly missing her exposed thigh. The liquid splashed and immediately was soaked up into the ugly carpet as Clarice desperately fumbled for her gun.

"Calm yourself, Agent Starling, I mean you no harm!" Came the voice from behind the shadows, and Dr Lecter stepped into the moonlight. Clarice shook in horror as she trained her gun on his still form. His hands were up and he took a step closer to her.

"Don't move, or I'll shoot!" She cried, trying to sound brave. Truthfully, all of her bravery had evaporated the second she had realised that nothing separated them any longer. Not glass, not Barney or Crawford, not even a metre of space.

"Clarice, I promise, I do not intend to hurt you. I am terribly sorry that I frightened you. You have nothing to fear." Easy for him to say, Clarice thought wildly. What would be left of her in the morning? A lock of hair? An unsavoury organ, perhaps? Or maybe she would vanish into the night, never to be seen again.

"H-how in the  _Hell_  did you escape, Dr Lecter?" Her voice and hands shook in tandem, but the muzzle of the gun remained pointed determinedly at the Good Doctor.

"Well, my dear, it is actually thanks to you that I am standing here right now." Her look of incredubility was almost funny, Hannibal noted, and he resisted the urge to chuckle.

"I would  _never-_ " she began hotly, blush covering her cheeks.

"No, I know, you would never facilitate the escape of a high-risk prisoner, a man capable of atrocities unkown. You are the good little FBI agent, the paragon of rectitude." His words stung, even now, Clarice realised.

"But I'm afraid you forgot yourself for a brief moment, my dear. A paperclip was all it took." This man could escape from a high-security prison with nothing but a  _paperclip_? Clarice was even surer now of her doom.

"Where is Barney?" Her voice was a little steadier now, but her gun didn't falter.

"He is at home, enjoying his dinner with  _The Simpsons_. The same, unfortunately, cannot be said for our mutual acquaintance, Dr Chilton." A shiver ran down Clarice's spine as she noted the grim satisfaction in the Doctor's tone. What had he done to Chilton?

"I killed him, if you're wondering, and I don't have any of his organs with me. He disagreed with me in life; I do not wish to give him the chance to disagree with me in death." The fear was slowly creeping away, out of Clarice, and she tried to hold onto it tighter. Despite his awful words, the more Dr Lecter talked, the more Clarice began to feel like they were back in the cells.

"Clarice."

Her name, plain and simple, brought her out of her internal conflicts, and she turned her eyes on his, dark red in the moonlight. He was dressed in the blue prison garb, but made it look normal, somehow. Clarice was too shocked to compute how he had not been seen.  _As far as you know_ , her conscience whispered.

"Dr Lecter."

"Please, call me Hannibal. I am so desperate to have someone call me by my  _name_." Clarice's mouth shook at the plea in his voice.

"H-Hannibal." His smile was as genuine as she had ever seen, pure happiness. Clarice lowered her gun an inch.

"I am truly sorry about your evening drink. May I prepare another for you, to make up for it?" Clarice almost laughed. Hannibal the Cannibal was offering to make her hot chocolate. This was Beckett-level absurd. As it was, she let out a snort. Dr Lecter raised an eyebrow.

"Something funny, Clarice?"

"A known criminal is offering to make me hot chocolate. Doctor, no one's done that for me since I was a child." Hannibal smiled indulgently, and stepped closer once more, leaving half a metre of space between their bodies. Her gun brushed his chest, and he looked down, almost as if he were noticing it for the first time.

"Before I answer, Clarice, would you mind terribly pointing the gun away from me, please? I went to a lot of effort to see you tonight."

"Why?" Clarice demanded. Her gun didn't move.

"Because I care for you, my dear. I have for some time now, and I wish to show you, if you'll permit me." Clarice's breath hitched at his blank honesty, and the gun dipped to the floor.

"Hot chocolate is a far cry from wining and dining a woman, Dr Lecter." she found herself replying, slipping into their badinage easily. Hold that thought, was she  _flirting_?

"Hannibal, my dear, and in the abscence of a decent restaurant at which to wine and dine you, hot chocolate will have to do." He looked pointedly at the gun, and Clarice reluctantly let her arm relax. Hannibal let out a silent breath, and stepped forward one last time, to offer her his arm gallantly.

"Shall we?"


	9. Chapter 9

Watching Hannibal Lecter, known cannibal and convicted killer, make hot chocolate out of a Wonder Woman mug was quite possibly one of the most absurd sights Clarice was ever likely to witness. He moved about the tiny kitchen with relaxed ease, filling the silence with clangs of the spoon against china and the whistle of the kettle as it boiled. He did not speak; he seemed to be waiting for her to break the silence.

She did not.

"I must say, the FBI doesn't shell out much for its trainees, does it?" He said, letting his eyes slide over the spartan facilities. Clarice felt some need to defend her temporary home.

"It suits me just fine."

"I'm sure it does, I meant no offense." He backed down, aware that while she had left the gun in her room, he wouldn't put it past the resourceful Clarice to use any of the knives in the drawers. Not that he didn't trust her, just that he was aware of her power.

Her other kind of power was quite rousing. Clarice was wearing tight exercise shorts with a baggy FBI top, made soft by countless washes. She had a patchwork blanket around her shoulders, like a child seeking protection from the dark. The neck of the shirt was wide, and fell to expose her collarbones more than once. Such an enticing part of a woman, the throat. It begged to be kissed and caressed, touched and teased.

"You look wonderful this evening, Clarice." Having been keeping her eyes on his every movement, Clarice was surprised by the sudden compliment.

"Th-thank you, Doctor."

"Hannibal," he gently reminded her, "and you're most welcome, my dear." He let the silence fall once again, as he poured the boiling water into the mug, filling it half full, then topping it off with milk. He heard her shift uneasily, and her scent reached him, woman with a hint of fear. Stirring the hot chocolate, Hannibal turned to face her slowly.

"Here you are, one hot chocolate, made in apology for making to spill the first one. Can I help you clean it up?"

"No, I'll do it tomorrow." Neither of them moved; Hannibal did not extend the cup, Clarice did not move to take it. They had reached another stalemate, and it was stale to Hannibal at this point. He was ready for a little more action. Crooking a finger and beckoning, Hannibal smiled.

"Come closer, Clarice, your hot chocolate will get cold." Clarice watched him with her careful eyes.

"No, you come to me." Hannibal smirked.

"When you put it that way... as you wish, my lady." He took a step, then another, until he was essentially handing the steaming mug to her. She did not take it still. Hannibal sighed, and put the mug resignedly on the counter to his left. Clarice was leaning against the counter closest to the swinging door.

"Clarice, what must I do to prove that I mean you no harm? I have no weapons on me-"

"You don't need a weapon to subdue someone, Dr Lecter."

"Back to Dr Lecter, eh?" Hannibal sounded almost sad, "I had rather hoped you would call me by my given name. After all, you always did show me courtesy."

"I was decent, you deserve decency."

"Indeed, but you did more than that. You indulged an old man in his little game of quid pro quo."

"You're not  _that_  old." Clarice said, looking a touch uncomfortable. Her eyes shifted away from him.

"Clarice, you need not save my ego, I am at least thirty years your senior."

"Mr Crawford isn't much older than fifty-"

"Mr Crawford?" Clarice realised what she had just said. She knew that his quick mind was connecting their conversations about Mr Crawford's supposed interest in her, knew that he was linking it to her father, knew that he was linking it to  _him_.

"Still searching for your daddy, Clarice?" Her face almost crumpled, and Hannibal felt an empathetic stab, but she steeled herself.

"None of your business." She spat. She suddenly noticed how close he was to her. She could smell him, he was a little fresher than the cells. It was a nice smell, she admitted.

"Ah, but I appear to be competing the role of father in your head, Clarice."

"I'm not deluded, I'm not putting you in that role." Clarice defended herself vehemently. Her eyes flashed in warning.

"But you did consider it once." Clarice boiled over.

"Yes, fine! I did, once! But I don't anymore!" She hissed, aware that people may hear them. Then she would really be in the shit. She glanced a look at the door, but no one seemed to be running towards the kitchen, all guns blazing. She turned back to look at him, only to find him alarmingly close to her face. Her stomach flipped.

"Not at all?"

"No!" Clarice considered a headbutt.

"Are you sure?" Clarice considered some more.

"I'm positive, Hannibal." She said, dangerously low.

"Then you won't mind if I kiss you." Before she could even think about reacting, his mouth was on hers, hot and demanding. Her gasp of complete shock was muffled, as he worked his lips gently over hers. He kissed like a lover. Clarice grabbed his shoulders and wrenched herself away from him. She drew back an arm, but Hannibal caught it.

"Careful now, Clarice."

"How dare you?" She seethed, quiet, tempestuous anger filling her veins, setting her skin on fire.

"Clarice, I-"

"No, don't you try to psychobabble your way out of this. I did not want you to kiss me to 'clarify' that I wasn't making you into a father figure, Hannibal. I want you to kiss me because  _you_  want to kiss me-" Before she could finish her rant, his mouth met hers again, passionately. This time she kissed back, and felt Hannibal grip her around the waist eagerly.

He surged forward, suddenly with a new energy, and encouraged her mouth open. When she obliged, he bit gently,  _oh so softly_  at her bottom lip, and she smiled. Open-mouth kissing a cannibal was surprisingly satisfying. But not enough, not yet. Clarice was still hungry for more.

Hannibal had not anticipated such honesty from Clarice. He had lost some of his renowned control on her, and kissed her earlier than he wanted to, but her passionate demand that he kiss her because  _he wanted to_  made him putty in her hands. Kissing Clarice was glorious, it felt like how poetry sounded, how music affected, how an opera moved. She was an artful kisser, and Hannibal was a willing canvas.

The mug of hot chocolate sat forgotten.


	10. Chapter 10

Life was so much more... open with Hannibal, Clarice had noticed. Before, she had been crammed in dorms and rooms, sharing with other girls in a cosy yet claustrophobic sardine tin. On to college, with more of the same, and then to the FBI Academy, which brought with it the same dorms she had always known, since her Daddy's death.

Now the world was her oyster, lying in wait patiently for her to discover it, hand in hand with her new lover.

Their relationship was not perfect by any stretch of the imagination. Hannibal had to adjust to civilian life, as it were, after eight years in the same dull cell. His moods were a little unpredictable, but he and Clarice were learning each other's habits and quirks, and getting along very well. Her honesty, coupled with his stunning perception made arguments short and infrequent. Her strong moral compass was gradually being re-wired by his vast life experience to think on the greyer areas in certain matters.

Hannibal's numerous crimes, for example. Clarice would admit her revulsion at some of the more gory elements of his criminal record, but she was beginning to see that each and every victim had victims of their own, and were not at all innocent.

She learned of his past, what had driven him to cannibalism in the first place. Hannibal did not choose his life, it was handed to him after he lost his parents, his sister, his home, everything he held dear.

Hannibal in turn learned of Clarice's demons. Her lambs, although calmer, were never truly silent, but he did his utmost best to comfort and guide her when they became particularly loud. He held her warm and close, as she sobbed into his chest, and they rocked together for mutual support when Misha would in turn scream for her big brother. Her Daddy, her one parent, friend and support, lost far too early for her to cope healthily. With time, Clarice came to realise how her relationships in adult life mostly appeared to mirror that father-daughter rapport that had been her lot for most of her developmental years.

But what they learned about each other wasn't always grim and psychological. Clarice learned that Hannibal's humour was mostly wry, full of clever little references that she more often picked up on, with her new education in the classics, which made him very happy. Hannibal learned that Clarice liked her tea black with one sugar, and that she had never really liked to paint her nails (her reasoning was that they felt uncomfortable), and that she liked French better than Spanish (it was a more egalitarian language, according to her, with its ideals of Liberté, Égalité and Fraternité).

Their education of each other developed, and they found their compatibility only grew with time. Hannibal discovered that Clarice was wonderfully vocal during lovemaking, and tended to let her senses guide her, while he found his experience served him well in that field. They both enjoyed cuddling, huddling close after gasping their mutual releases, warm and spent.

They still loved to spar, throwing comments and notes back and forth in their beloved games of quid pro quo. But rather than feeling short and frustrated when he withheld answers, Clarice found that a good match of wits left her feeling exhilarated, breathless and only endeared her to Hannibal more. They had found their intellectual equivalent in each other, and were charmed by their rapport.

Occasionally they would have a scare, the local police sniffing too close, or Clarice missing a period. But they managed every time, and the couple agreed that to bring a child into the world would endanger both it and them. So for now, they remained a pair, two souls connected at the mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to write a perfect ending for Hannibal and Clarice, because it isn't so in the book, nor do I personally think everything would be magically fixed once they became intimate. Hannibal is deeply psychologically different to Clarice, who has many of her own shortcomings. But their strength as a pair is their meeting minds, for me, and their chemistry, be it physical, verbal or mental. Thank you once again, and leave some feedback if you please!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your time, leave some feedback if you please.


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